The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley

The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley

November 28

When one is nearing Christmas time, it is safe to say that one is usually in a very jolly mood. It is also safe to say that one would be safe from dastardly stalkers/psychopaths/dark lord accomplices.

I guess on the bright side, it’s not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents. Yay, people seem to like me.

On the darker, overpowering side, it’s not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents from mysterious unknowns.

Even more sinister: It’s a diary.

‘Here is a diary, for you to pour your heart into.’

I will tell you here and now (for I, Ginny Weasley, do not lie) that I am not the sharpest crayon in the box. Er—is that right? Or is that brightest tool in the shed? No, I’ve got it.

I am not the brightest crayon in the box.

But neither am I completely stupid. I have more than an ounce of brain. And I most certainly do not suffer from short-term memory loss. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. (That one’s right, is it not?)

Being the smart, deducing girl that I am, I’ve an idea who might have sent it.

A sick minded bastard who thought he could have a good laugh with his equally sick buddies, who will also become a eunuch if I ever get my hands on him. Poor chap.

I planned on throwing it away. A girl like me has virtually no use for a diary, except perhaps fuel for the Gryffindor fire.

But just as I neared the roaring chasm of doom (or, as the commoners say: the fireplace), seeking to banish this evil and potent talisman into nothingness for eternity--Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Big Foot came sauntering in.

By Murphy’s Law, it is only natural that they notice the pretty, shiny, gold trimmed diary. I don’t blame them or their superficiality. The possessed thing looks prettier than I, and therefore it is probably more worthy of their attention. My only hope was that Harry would have a kind of X-Ray vision (something these muggle healers practice) that would scan the diary and know immediately of its nefarious intentions. He said nothing, however. Perhaps he needs new glasses.

Anyway, it’s not fair that evil things and people should look so pretty. Like Malfoy. He is definitely on the pretty list. But no one can stand him, anyway. Oh, well. At least Voldemort doesn’t look pretty. Well, at least not anymore. The man is getting a bit old, we all must admit. Damn, am I having less than murderous thoughts about my evil former captive, Tom Riddle?

No. I digress.

I realized then that I would have to explain to Harry, Herm, and Ron about the Perpetrator-Soon-To-Be-Eunuch.

Hermione: [frowns, as if affronted] How do you know it’s a boy?

Ron: Who would send you a diary like that?

Me: Umm.

Harry: Well, I’d say it’s quite obvious who did it. Voldemort sent it. [We cringe.] Voldemort, that bloody bastard, he’s everywhere! You turn a corner, ‘Here I am, and I am Voldemort!’ [We wince.] ‘OH, Voldemort, there you are!’ ‘Yes, I, Voldemort, have come to wreak havoc!’ [We sigh desolately.] ‘Oh, VOLDEMORT, come to kill us, have you! BETTER YET, send Ginny a DIARY! Well, you old bat, you’ve used that trick before, so you can just shove it where the sun doesn't shine--’

[Note for future: Harry tends to get a little overexcited about his dark lord.]

Hermione: [still cringing, manages to interrupt him.] Oh, don’t be ridiculous Harry. It’s not [shudder] V-Voldemort. Ginny? Do you have any clue who it might have been? Secret admirers, perhaps—

Ron: Don’t be silly. Ginny doesn’t date. [Dear, ignorant brother looks thoughtful.] It was most likely Dumbledore who sent it, anyway.

Harry: [Having calmed down] Yea. Like he sent me my invisibility cloak, anonymously.

Hermione: But Harry, that was your dad’s. He was just passing it on, as he should.

Harry: So? Maybe the diary was Mr. Weasley’s. You don’t know that it wasn’t.

Ron: Maybe it’s a special diary. [Squints eyes.] Can’t believe my father would hold out on me like that, and give it to Ginny.

Hermione: What do you think about all this, Ginny?

Me: Um.

Ron: Do you reckon its worth over a galleon, this?

Harry: [scratching his head] I dunno…

Hermione: Honestly, who cares?

The verdict was that I was to write in it. I understand that these three people have saved all of our arses before, but who’s to disagree that maybe, all of that Death Eater battling has addled their minds? I'm also not entirely doubting the possibility that they are behind this. Git Ron would do it. Nervous Harry might, too, if persuaded at a vulnerable moment. Hermione…Hermione probably hates me anyway, because I refused to be in her little elitist club.

Hermione thinks that I am too quiet, and that a diary is a good way to process thoughts. Yea, sure. Only I bet she's never had her diary give her feedback on her 'processed thoughts'. Ron told her I didn’t like to think. I should have socked him.

The point is that I will do no such thing. Write, I mean.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I’m doing right now.

I think they rather think of me as a dog.

November 29

A recollection of what has happened today in life:

Woke up. Ate breakfast. Ate chocolate. Ate homework. Ate Ron’s homework. Ate Harry’s homework. Tried to eat Hermione’s homework, but she has it protected with anti-eating charms.

Then I rolled around bed for a while, reading Teen Witch Weekly. Although, I never understood the obligation that every teenage girl feels to read these trashy magazines relating to such non-important topics as, “How To Pluck Your Eyebrows: The Right Way!”

Is it the natural estrogen in all of us that compels us to do so? What does this mean for me? That I am in some way defective?

But here’s a gem: “How To Get A Boyfriend In Less Than A Month”.

Right, sure. I'm sure I've tried almost all of these, trying to get a boyfriend after I broke up with Michael. To everyone's immense surprise (Hey, that's sarcasm) it didn't work. Besides, a month is a long time. It should be, “In Less Than A Week”. How come they don’t have those owl order boyfriends? Not fair.

Still, there is no harm in reading, or exercising my literate abilities.

December 1

Why do people feel the need to fritter their money away whenever it is December? Is it a natural human instinct, like scratching your buttocks when it itches? Please, I would gladly take any money you spend on shopping and use it on a better cause.

All the signs in Hogsmeade are so very propagandistic, and so very tempting, proclaiming things like, “A real diamond necklace for your best girl! ON SALE NOW!” or “A sexy pair of boxers for him! 30 % OFF ONLY UNTIL WEDNESDAY!” I wish I had someone to buy boxers for. Or briefs. I don’t really care which.

But I am thinking it has become a law to go Christmas shopping. Which means I will need to go hunting for money.

Which also means a Christmas list. Double damn.

Harry- Comprehensible book on paranoia and its long-term effects.

Ron- Underwear. All of his have holes in them. Mum was always complaining about it, anyway. Bother.

Hermione: A “sewing machine” for her clothes making fetish. I heard it was efficient.

Yay, I am done. More sleep for Ginny.

December 2

Ron is vexed with me. Poor thing thinks I care.

He’s angry because I caught a cold from being out in the freezing cold with nothing but a thin robe on. I don’t see why he has to get in a right state when I’m the one who has to endure the burning throat, clogged nose, and burning fever. I hate fever the most. It makes me look like I’m blushing at everything.

For example:

Harry: Hey, Ginny.

Me: Unnnh. (Face is furiously red from fever.)

Ron: [Shakes head.] Ginny, stop blushing at Harry. He’s just saying hi.

Me: I’m not blushing! (Face turns redder from fever and indignation.)

Ron: [To Harry] She likes you.

Harry: [Looks smug.]

Maybe I’ll lie here on my bed, writing my will. I can feel death pulling at me.

Oh, never mind. That was just my scarf, caught on the drawer handle.

December 3

Due to an increase in temperature and a lack of precipitation, cold winds etc--

The snow has all melted, and I am officially in a bad mood. This is usually an event that is woeful for everyone; I make sure of it.

In honor of this sad occasion, I have written a poem.

If I can stop one snowflake from melting, I shall not live in vain.

It sucks, doesn’t it? You can tell me the truth.

Um. You know I was kidding, right? Nice inanimate journal.

December 4

Hermione says it’s not possible to die of boredom, but I tend to disagree. My boredom causes me to go into a sort of coma, lying abed very, very still. So still, that Ron stumbled upon my rigid body lying on the sofa and asked me if I was alive. Suspect he was disappointed when I blinked at him.

So. You can go into a catatonic coma from boredom. What if I lie so still, I trick my brain into thinking I’m dead? Then my heart might stop beating. Then I would be dead.

Ron is even more furious with me for scraping by with a 50% on my potions essay. He gave me his annual ‘ Big Brother’ speech a little early. He told me then to stop focusing on men. Honestly! Me! Boys! HA! I can barely remember what looking lovingly at Michael was like.

Seriously, though. He could have just said, stop mooning over Harry, Ginny. Don’t do this, Ginny. Do this instead, Ginny. You’re a good girl, Ginny. Roll over and beg for a treat, Ginny.

Moreover, his advice would make more sense if I had any boys to concentrate on. None seemed to be much interested in me, and really, it’s sad that a girl of 16 hasn’t even properly snogged a lad yet. My other lame-brained boyfriends and I have never gotten farther than a grade school peck on the cheeks, or if he was feeling daring, a fleeting brush over the lips. It’s sad to think of it. But they were all scared of my brother. Can you imagine that? They probably felt they were dating him, instead of me after a while, and we can all imagine how horrible that would be. The point is: Am I really so disfigured?

Or maybe, as I had always hoped, it’s not me, but this school. Maybe something happened to all its inhabitants while I was not looking and turned them all into half-witted ignoramuses.

December 6

My Life Problems:

1. Achieve expressing my opinions and thoughts out loud, to clear any misconceptions about me being even remotely shy. This is just not a trait seen in a Weasley, and yet, I refuse to be as loud as Ron. What kind of options does this leave me?

2. I’m flunking Potions.

3. Sometimes, I feel that people fail to understand me. I fail to understand them. It’s a mutual problem. Or maybe I’m just in one of my moods.

4. I don’t have a boyfriend.

5. My brother is a total ponce. Without actually being one.

6. Boredom. Coma. I have to get rid of it. Soon.

7. No snow. Am not feeling the spirit of Christmas. Am feeling poor, though.

8. I need to figure out who gave this diary to me before I make like Harry and blame everything on Voldemort. Oh, God, I wrote his name on paper again. SCRIBBLE IT OUT.

Right.

But perhaps the newest and biggest problem has only just risen.

Ever since the Self Discovery class was open to students who needed a little help and guidance for their personal and social life--

Ron has been begging me to join.

It is a fact of life that when your brother begs you to join a class such as Self Discovery, one is a hapless loser. The former statement verily applies to me.

Ron gave me a pamphlet on what this class was about. I don’t feel that I need to read it. IT IS A GATHERING OF DROOLING HALFWITS WHO NEED TO BE FED BRAINS.

Ron: You’re just in denial, Ginny.

And then he hands me my new schedule. Self Discovery 10:00-11:00’ plastered upon it.

9. Survive Self Discovery, and find myself a paper bag to wear over my head, which will be hanging in shame.

As the ancient and sage philosophers say: Life is a bitch.